


Death Becomes Her		- 	Death and the Suicide Girl

by serpiente



Category: Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy
Genre: Complete, F/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23961595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpiente/pseuds/serpiente
Summary: What if the ending to Grim in Love happened due to a misunderstanding...but one on Grim's part instead? If the mythos of Death and the Maiden is to be believed...Death falls in love with life all of the time...but the living falling in love with Death can only mean one thing.Trigger Warning: Highly dramaticized mentions of suicidal thoughts so please don't read if you are sensitive to that.Or conversly...how the heck did Malaria not notice anything and my attempt to explain this with the power of fan fiction.
Relationships: Grim/Malaria, Malaria/Grim
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Death Becomes Her		- 	Death and the Suicide Girl

They say that when people try to commit suicide there's always a moment where they suddenly want to live before they realize it's too late. It was something she had always heard from sitting in waiting rooms, reading Psychology Today, and sitting in on counseling circles. People who had managed to survive jumping off bridges, or found just in the nick of time as they were starting to bleed out in their bathtubs, would be pleaded with and questioned. Why, why, why do it and, morbidly, how did it feel? So many would answer the basics, the things she already knew. Life got too hard. They wanted an end to the pain. But then, regarding the second question...so many would say that for a horrid moment the realization of never breathing again would hit and then suddenly, painfully, almost ironically, they wanted to live.  


Malaria always thought that if she ever actually had the guts to do it she would just force herself to go through with to make sure to end it once and for all. She couldn't stand the idea of having to justify or explain herself like that if she were to have a failed attempt. Malaria had been in and out of therapy for several years now and while she never got suicidal enough to actually make plans the thoughts definitely stayed. The ideation of suicide ebbed and flowed like the tide with her and at this point it was something she had chosen to try her best to ignore. She had to if she was ever going to function like a normal human being. She had to if she wanted to make sure she didn't get worse. Her depression had always been a constant in her life but over time it had reached the point where she could almost sense it coming on. She had learned a few tricks here and there to cope at least.  


Her romanticism and humor were certainly some of those coping mechanisms. She hated the stereotype of goths being inherently depressed primarily because she herself fit into that category and in a lot of ways she hated herself. But, her style, her music, her taste in literature, art, and even home decor took a lot of inspiration from her own romanticism of the darkness of her mind. If she couldn't find beauty in it then what was all this suffering good for? Might as well wear the burden with style.  


There was laughter to be found in it all as well. Malaria was always quick to laugh at black comedy, loved things that would normally gross other people out, she loved the macabre and she saw the silly in the surreal. Even her moniker, the name she uttered across the dance floors of goth clubs; Malaria, was her way at winking at her own love of the dramatic. It was a play on her birth name which also started with M; a name few knew of anymore. A part of her found it funny that mosquitoes were sort of like tiny vampires; horrible tiny things that could do maximum devastation to the human body. Depression was as valid as any other disease, and it kept coming back, seemingly impossible to get rid of and mainly because of the series of bad thoughts that would pester, one after the other. The disease malaria was a product of blood sucking; depression of soul sucking. In that parallel she found a sort of inside joke for herself. The name did wonderful as an icebreaker, even as a pickup line.  


“Hi, they call me Malaria 'cause I'm impossible to get rid of, “ or “Hey, the name's Malaria 'cause I'm sure to get you heated” or any plethora of foolish ways to speak to a stranger across the bar, the name always did it's job. In a world of night clubs and record shops where plenty of people were dressing up in black latex and getting by with their own dark monikers she always found her people. If she didn't have that kind of support group somewhere she surely would be lost by now. To Malaria, her music and fashion was as important to her as her therapy because it gave her community. She hated herself for the cliché of it all but there it was. She took it seriously.  


So much so, she even had her name legally changed. She went by Mal in most places, and a lot of people seemed to assume it was short for Mallory anyway. But in certain spaces it was a testament to how extremely she fit into the goth lifestyle . This was who she was. Never let it be said that she wasn't a real one. Especially in a town like Endsville where there was quite a bit of nightlife but definitely not as much as any real major city. Finding that kind of standing amongst a particular subculture meant you were in those places all the time. You contributed your own art, your own presence. If there were only so many goths in Endville then you would certainly start to notice familiar faces and Malaria was one of them. It kept her alive.  


She always had plans to attend and continue making; concerts, dances, art shows. In the night, when she'd be alone in her bed, stuck in her head with all the possible reasons why she might have turned out the way that she was, she would tell herself this. Her brain would be circling into a spiral of self loathing and replaying every abuse in her life ever encountered and then she would simply tell herself that there were those tickets she had already paid for and she had promised people she would be there at such and such event and that there was always something to look forward to because there was. It was difficult, but in all reality, Malaria lived for art. For beautiful things and beautiful sounds. But it was still difficult.  


Maybe that was why she had fallen for him and fallen so hard. Why she found herself making goo goo eyes at the tall, dark, and handsome stranger across the sands, her back to the shimmering sea. It was such a beautiful day to go for a walk on the beach, and like always, she had her black parasol to shade her white shoulders from the sun. He was there and somehow she managed to catch his eye and she couldn't seem to help herself from looking straight back.  


Malaria had seen her fair share of artwork involving the Death and the Maiden motif and frankly, she had always found the idea distasteful. Especially when it came up in Victorian literature. There was always an undercurrent of misogyny to the whole thing. The idea that a woman dying young and virginal was better than to age. That a woman's “perfection” would stay forever immortalized because she never got to “spoil” that idea of a beautiful, nubile self. Malaria was no art historian or literary professor but Death in art and books was common enough in her circles. The few other takes on the motif she had seen weren't much better to her sensibilities either. The idea proposed in medieval art was that vanity would be met with dying young; a fitting punishment for those too obsessed with their own looks.  


In more contemporary culture, Malaria had seen Death and the Maiden a bit differently on tattoos and t-shirts. It was more a symbol of rebellion. The idea that life was short so therefore women needed to play by their own rules, live fast, and ensure taking full advantage of their youth. She thought about all the Harley Davidson poster art she had seen of pretty blondes hugging a Skeletor-like Death from behind as they rode off in a motorcycle, cigarettes in mouth.  


Together, the two of them were like none of those things. He was like none of those things. He was so much better than anything she could have ever imagined. From the moment they shared that glance across the shore, from the moment he slid her way, he was like nothing any art done by human hands, any earthly singer, any poet, could ever capture. He was like the most gentle of lovers, he was like a lullaby, and that... she didn't expect. It was a testament to her own ignorance how sweet he could be.  


His voice was lilting and warm, so warm. His accent whispered of Caribbean shores and she was surprised at her own lack of surprise regarding it. His voice sounded perfectly at home in that skull of his; his demeanor; debonair. He said his name was Grim and that made the corners of her mouth go up. There was something so familiar about exchanging edgy monikers. The moment could have passed as any casual exchange between two hardcore goths relishing being in the same aesthetic setting. Perhaps, for a second, she let herself believe that's what it was. What followed was the sublime and so she let herself believe he was a simple figure also draped in black because the immensity of it was sure to overwhelm her. What she discovered was that he was more like one of her kind than she could have ever known.  


He was absolutely gentle in the way he caressed her, held her. He was so kind, unbelievably so. Grim had a way of walking by her side, arm in arm, always making sure to match her pace. They had so much in common. All the beautiful things she loved to surround herself by, he seemed to adore too. Fashion, art, music; he cherished all of these things and shared her tastes. They would walk side by side, as equals, doing nothing but talking. He listened to her entire life's story, really listened; grinning rakishly and adding his own commentary along the way. He seemed so distressed at the somber parts, so ready to do anything to fix it all for her. He chuckled at all the proper intervals where her jokes tried to wash the sad parts away.  


Grim even shared her same sense of humor. He had a penchant for a good dose of schadenfreude and liked his comedy like he drank his coffee; black. She knew this because he took her to one of the best diners she had ever been to. They shared a meal together which shouldn't have made any sense but when it was happening it felt so natural. His presence looming as she downed pancakes, eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. Her lips smacked as she drank her orange juice, sipped some coffee. Her red lipstick left so many smudges on her mug that they shone like a welt. He watched her through it all with his empty sockets and it felt good, it felt right. He didn't let her eat alone and had his own plate. She couldn't begin to imagine how he could even eat but he was a true gentleman, never seeking to make her feel uncomfortable in any way and a true gentleman would never let a lady dine alone. It wasn't bad for a last meal. She licked the spoon before the plates were cleared and they moved on to finishing their coffee. She had never felt so alive. That should have been her first clue.  


Asking him about his profession had been too easy. The words came out too calmly. There was no part of her that shuddered at the thought. She was heavy lidded from a full belly and wanted nothing more than to rest. Her mind felt cloudy with the need for a nap. Her movements were lethargic. When he answered that he could always tell when someone was faking death she couldn't help but to test him. She acted her heart out, fully playing up any knowledge she had from her high school drama class days. She gasped and groaned, tried her best to do a death rattle and when it was over and she had fully face planted onto the table between them she stayed as still as she possibly could. With the full diner eying her she lilted her voice into high pitched giggles. The table felt cool on face as she laughed. The look of astonishment on his bone face was enough to have her straining for air, slumped over, as she fell apart to peals of cackles. Hanging out with him was having a strange effect on her,she truly didn't give a damn what people thought and she was heady from the feeling. It was fun. None of it would matter soon anyway. Might as well get a practice shot in , she thought idly to herself. The thought bubbled over, almost formless in her head, but she didn't let it sit there for long before draping her gloved hand over his.  


She had never wished she didn't wear gloves more than when she was holding his hand. Her full length opera gloves, her velvet dress, her black ribbon choker. Her shoes; her red, sparkly vinyl pump stiletto heels with the red fishnets underneath. All the little details that went into her outfit,the little things that brought her pleasure in her self image didn't seem to matter when she was around him. She longed to see what those ivory metacarpal bones would feel like against her own palm. She didn't care who she stepped on in her heels, being around him was like being in a daze. She took every hit of serotonin she could get when she could get it; her fondness for schadenfreude turning cruel the more time she spent with him. Being around him felt like a warm, heavy, hug. Like some lizard part of her brain was just waiting for her next hit of feel good emotions no matter how they came because nothing mattered as long as he was around; waiting for her. The only thing of any importance was how he made her feel and he made her feel pretty great. Like she had no ties to anything. He felt like freedom.  


That night he took her to a graveyard. Being there felt cosmic. Part of her wondered what it would be like to be buried there, whether she should pick a spot. What it would feel to rest and turn into the Earth beneath her. But the thoughts were somehow both fleeting and lingering at once; like smoke rings. The rest of the time she was simply enjoying the scenery. Cemeteries weren't a foreign element to her, how could they be? Goths hung out in graveyards all the time. It was a good reminder that these sites were thought of as public places such as parks once upon a time; when the reality of the presence of death in people's lives wasn't so often denied. It was also a common place for things like photo shoots for her and her fellow goths. So it shouldn't have been strange that Grim led her there. That's what she told herself, anyway. That was what she told herself.  


Climbing onto a particularly tall and ornate tombstone, Grim's hand in hers, ready to lift her up as he helped her along, she shouted a quip as good as any for a couple of goths hanging around a graveyard. Once she had reached the very top, her voice called out into the blackness, “I'm Queen of the Underworld!”  


She felt herself breathe the sharp, cold, air, her neck snapping back at the rush. Breathing felt so good and the smoke ring thoughts drifted up and up and wafted away. She inhaled so deep it felt like her lungs hurt. When a colony of bats emerged from some cave far away and she could feel the wind they made in so many flaps she felt that moment was the best she was ever going to feel. A bat's wing promptly whipped her in the face and she heard Grim gasp behind her. She couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Her raucous laughter rung up into the sky with the bats and Grim's own laughter soon joined hers and together there was something beautiful there that she couldn't place and didn't want to. But, in Grim's presence she felt her blood pumping, she felt her diaphragm rise and fall and she felt the utter, insane beauty of the ancient Earth and all that had ever lived. That should have been her second clue.  


Later, in the darkness of astronomical twilight they traipsed through the graveyard and into the outskirts of the nearby woods. Arms linked, they stumbled around roots and she could see her breath come out of her like so many tiny clouds. Grim's bleach white bones shone in the darkness. His alabaster brow furrowed as he grabbed her arm to stop her heels from tripping across the uneven dirt. She had the faint idea that it was strange he should have any ability for expression at all but like in all things, he always seemed so innocuously natural no matter what he did. That made sense, didn't it? He was a fact of life. He was Death.  


The mandible of his jaw tightened and she longed to reach for it, to touch it. Would he feel cold... or hot? She felt herself starting to extend her fingers and then stopped at the sight of her own gloved hand. Grim mistook her reaching out for needing balance and wrapped his arm around her waist as they stepped over some especially knotted grass. He was such a gentleman. No one took care of her this way. Not really. Malaria had a sense of community but not of family and the realization was hitting her now.  


“Careful, now.” His voice rumbled in that lilted way of his.  


“I will be, “ she said absentmindedly. What could he possibly mean by that? Careful how? What did it matter and what did it matter in particular to him especially? But then, she supposed, that was the role of all psychopomps. He was here to make it all easier; soft. She just hadn't expected it. She was constantly being surprised by what surprised her about him and what didn't. Part of her wanted to ask if he was the one and only, if there were others, or if he had been especially sent for her. If she had her own private angel of death; her own guardian, then it should be fitting that it be him. She liked him.  


Thunder reverberated off in the distance. His grip on her tightened and he held her closer. She wasn't sure if the sound caught in her throat was from hearing the thunder or from his arm unexpectedly cloaked around her body. She could feel the breath caught in her chest and when it did rise and fall it was from the feel of drops pattering onto bare skin. The sweetheart neckline of her sleeveless dress did little to protect her from the elements and she had a moment of shock of the idea of being caught in the rain in true velvet. But what did material things matter, really? It was all so pointless, wasn't it? You couldn't take it with you, every one knew that. Death would come for everyone, the rich and the poor.  


Malaria glanced at Grim from under her thick eyelashes. She wondered why he didn't have a scythe. Didn't people use to to believe that he came for the commoners with a scythe and the rich with a sword? She looked at him in his black robe. Maybe that had simply never been a thing at all. Maybe her lack of understanding only proved that there was something so much more beyond all that. More than whatever this sordid existence was where nothing had any real meaning. She leaned in closer to him and let out a chuckle. She could feel the raindrops hitting her eyelashes. She crinkled her eyes up at him in laughter. Soon her mascara would run and she probably wouldn't be able to see too well but she didn't care just like she didn't care about her dress.  


She found herself spinning, she didn't know who started the dance. Lightning clapped and the rain poured down harder and a part of her wanted to scream that they should rush indoors somewhere, that it was dangerous so close to the trees but another part of her could feel her heart beating behind her ribcage and it felt delicious. The smell of the rain on the dirt filled her nostrils and she threw her head back, Grim's arms catching her in a dip. She wanted to lose herself in the Danse Macabre, and why shouldn't she when it felt so good? Grim's rumbled laughter rose to join hers and his grin shone underneath the flashes of lightning. Her hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was quickly going into it's natural wavy state in the rain and as they continued their silly, resplendent dance she could feel his gaze at her dishevelment.  


She paused, suddenly. Their spinning ceased and she looked up at him and she could feel herself coming apart at the seams. She could feel her makeup sliding off her face and her wet hair at the nape of her neck. Her velvet dress was surely ruined. She couldn't imagine what he saw there but she knew in all certainty that none of it mattered when she looked up at his face. Death saw through all things and surely he saw through to the heart of her.  


He grinned wide, the rain falling into his eye sockets, filling his mouth in a grotesque display that almost looked like a waterfall. In the dark of the night, in their stillness, one might have mistaken him as a stone facet of a fountain with his bones reminiscent of marble. But, under the shine of moonlight, and as close as she was to him, it almost looked like he was crying tears of joy; his grin catching tears that came from the heavens themselves.  


She could have kissed him then. She almost did. She settled on placing her lips to his clavicle bone and resting her head on his shoulder; not quite a kiss. He was as cold as ice and she shivered against him. The idea of him possibly feeling warm to the touch seemed ridiculous to her now. Being held tight against him like this was strange. He was literally nothing but bones and it was almost uncomfortable and yet, it felt better than feeling utterly alone. The thought hurt and yet she felt a peculiar sort of ecstasy from it. She sighed against him. She felt pleasure from the validation of knowing that this is what awaited her and that it truly was better than her empty life. Grim said nothing but laced a finger around her cheek and then into the black waves of her hair. The lightening continued to strike around them and she found herself no longer afraid, she could wait for the coming of the dawn in this way.  


As they stood there she briefly wondered if this was it. This is how she could leave. Death from a chill after a splendid freezing and rainy night, or from a strike of lightening. But, it was not to be. Suddenly, Grim seemed almost distraught in demeanor.  


“I have to go.” His voice seemed to tremble a bit in his throat, if you could call it his throat, and he pulled away from her.  


“Where are you going?” She asked as she gripped her own shoulders. Without his hold on her she felt the wet air in full force. The rain was still pelting down and now there was a wind blowing. Her voice was almost lost in it.  


“I'll have them wondering where I am.”  


“What do you mean?” She couldn't begin to imagine what forces he had to respond to as the very Death personified.  
He looked at her then. His sockets were empty and yet she never doubted when his gaze was on her. The voids of where his eyes should have been seemed to stare into her very core. “Let's just say I can't break contract.”  


“Oh, okay.” She said softly, unsure if he heard her. Her voice was starting to sound a little hoarse to her own ears.  


“I don't break my promises,” he said and she didn't doubt it, considering the nature of who he was.  


The rain had his robe so wet now that it clung to his frame in a way that would have been obscene if he had any flesh. Instead it was an almost repulsive image but he made it look achingly beautiful. Malaria was reminded of the statue by Elna Borch and briefly wondered if that was what she had failed to understand of the Death and the Maiden motif. She had never stopped to consider the maiden's point of view. She hadn't seen many works that actually came from a woman's perspective. Now she thought perhaps she understood. It wasn't about dying young and leaving behind a pretty corpse at all. It was about giving in. She wanted to give in so badly in that moment.  


“So, when will I see you again?” She almost whispered.  


Grim, in all his power, heard her despite the rain and wind and whispered back, “Come closer..I'll walk you home.” For a whisper, his voice sounded in her head like he had physically placed the words in there himself. She didn't question it.  


The dawn came, the rain slowed, and she made her way to her doorway with him in tow. She stood there, on the precipice of asking him inside. Instead, she led him indoors by the hand without saying a word between them. He followed her to her room. She laid down on her bed and she knew she needed to get out of her wet clothes but she just couldn't bring herself to mind anymore. Grim placed a hand on her head and she felt herself sigh in assured release. Her makeup was surely going to get all over the sheets. She probably looked a complete mess.  


“I'll see you again tonight if you'll have me.” His deep voice sounded like it was aching in her ears and for a brief second the idea of Death asking permission for anything felt utterly wrong. She ignored it however, when she saw the pain in his face.  


“Pick me up at eight,” she said.

***

They found themselves in front of a restaurant. Malaria couldn't seem to remember how she even got there. Her day had consisted of her sleeping for most of it and wondering if she would develop a fever. At some point she had gotten up to take a warm bath and get ready for the evening. Her head felt like it was filled with cotton. She couldn't remember Grim showing up at her door to pick her up or the manner in which they reached the premises. The flashing neon sign said Hard Rot Cafe. There was chain link and tombstones everywhere, and mushrooms growing in the damp earth despite no signs of other plant life. The exception being a few dead trees. How someone had managed to get town approval to build a restaurant in the smack middle of a cemetery she didn't know. It stuck her then that perhaps they weren't even in Endsville. They must have driven into the city because there wasn't any goth hang out in Endsville that she didn't know about. When she looked up, the sky was a deep, angry red. The pollution in the city must have been far worse than she knew about.  


Grim led her into the restaurant and her eyes trailed across tombstone booths and red vinyl chairs. It also seemed to be a nightclub because there was a dance floor and a spot where live music was sure to be played. The place was packed. She could make out various figures in the darkly lit space, all dressed to the nines in their most dramatic, scary ensembles. Special effects makeup seemed to be the norm here. The entire building looked like the inside of some sort of rotting beast and was lit up by what was made to look like a red pumping heart in place of a chandelier. The whole place smelled like clove cigarettes and like some earthy smell underneath that she couldn't place. She couldn't believe the production that went into such an establishment, how had she never heard of it? Her eyes lit up at the complete, unabashed creativity. Even the silly tombstone booths had a level of detail that was unprecedented, they looked almost real.  


“Ooh, tombstone booths,” she couldn't help but keep the girlish energy out of her voice as she spotted the care taken to etch different names and dates on every single one. “How deliciously morbid.”  


Grim's thoughts seemed elsewhere. “Mmm, yes, perfectly spooky, “ was his only response to her pointing out all of the lovely décor.  


He led her to their seats and she watched as he gave a wistful look.  


“Why the long face?” She asked. What could possibly have him upset at the prospect of another fun night out?  


She should have mulled on the thought a little longer. Perhaps then, she would have seen the fault in her own reasoning. How many nights did she expect to spend with Grim? But, then a figure took the stage in front of where they were seated.  


“The truth is--,” Grim started to say but was promptly cut off.  


“Ladies and gentlemen!” An announcer shouted into a vintage microphone. He was made up to look like a rotting corpse. She swore she could see a worm pop out of his face underneath the spotlight but when she blinked she didn't see it anymore. This place was like an amusement park made specifically for the darkly inclined, she couldn't believe the grandiosity of it all.  


The announcer's voice sounded like an old timey radio host and the man did nothing but ham it up to add to the ambiance.“Time for a rrrrrrreally big dance contest!” He gave a big snort to drive in the living corpse effect for all it was worth. “Now welcome, contestants!”  


There was a drum roll, the spotlight moved and Malaria found herself and Grim underneath it.  


She gasped, “That's us!”  


They rose to the stage, Grim pulling her by the hand. Did Grim plan this or were they randomly chosen for the contest? Where there any rules? She expected the announcer to explain something to this effect but soon all there was where he stood was a pile of ashes. There was the smell of something burning in the air from the direction of the pile. Before she could register how such an illusionary feat would have to be pulled off, the music started. She felt excitement rise up her body as she looked at Grim who looked just as thrilled right back. He looked utterly enticing in his unfiltered joy, she felt herself swept up in it. This spark in feeling should have held a clue for herself but Malaria carried on.  


The two of them squealed in delight as they broke out dancing. Malaria shook her hips to the beat and let out gruesome face after gruesome face in pure innocent joy. Moments in places like these could be so playful. She could let her inner child out. She always felt at home in the goth scene; the ugly, the morbid, the scary...it all seemed less frightening and sad when there was an appreciation for the beauty and the dramatic and even the silliness of it all.  


Grim followed suit with his own dance moves. He timed himself perfectly to the synth beats and had his own uncanny responses to the faces she pulled. She gave him a playful growl and he made moves as if to pounce on her. The tune was a darkwave version of Miserlou and Malaria even slid two fingers across her face in an imitation of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She could have laughed at the unrefined pleasure of it all, she was having so much fun.  


Grim looked beautiful under the spotlight, his concentrated face in front of hers. The shadows on his face from the light above him made him look more ghastly than ever and for a second she had to ask herself what others around her saw. She hadn't thought to ask herself that before. Did others just see a man? It troubled her that she had been hanging around him this whole time without questioning what it even looked like but then the beat sped up and it quickly left her mind. Grim looked fully focused on the music. He was just as into it as she was and she loved the feeling. That right there was exactly why she went to places like these, she thought. She felt understood.  


She let herself be utterly lost in the moment. He was just a guy and she was just a girl at a goth club having a good time. There was nothing beyond this but this dance. She did these sorts of things plenty of nights. She loved dressing up, listening to her music, spending time with like minded people and it was something she could see herself always doing. She slid her hands over her hips and made a silly face at him again. The hazy feeling she had when around him simply continued to grow thicker. What followed was a rude awakening.  


The air grew stiflingly hot all of a sudden. There was a flash of light and then smoke everywhere. Malaria could feel her lungs tightening. Suddenly Grim's presence felt impossibly hot. She could feel the heat coming off him in waves but she couldn't see him with all of the smoke. This felt like a complete shock when just last night he had felt so cold. Flames danced into her vision then and her eyes almost watered as her line of sight blurred. She felt her hair whip back. The smoke continued to roll across the floor in waves and then she saw him.  


Grim stretched across the floor and grew to an unbearable size. He rose, up and up and she had to crane her neck to look at him. He filled the immensity of the ballroom-like floor. He took over the entirety of the restaurant space. She felt trapped, stifled, suddenly claustrophobic in his presence. There was nowhere she could go and be away from him. He was larger than anything she could ever begin to grasp in her human brain, he was ancient, he was Death. There was no escape from Death.  


“You're-- you're the real Grim Reaper?” She heard herself ask, trembling and stuttering, like an imbecile. Of course he was,she knew this. What part of her hadn't understood what that meant?  


“I am.” Death solemnly boomed. His voice resonated in the tiny enclave the building had now become.  


She hadn't even realized she had screamed until it was already out of her. That's when it fully struck her to look at her surroundings; really look. Everywhere else he had taken her to had been somewhere human, somewhere within the earthly realm; this was not that. The smells... the smells from earlier that she couldn't place, she could now. The earthly smell, the burning smell. This was flesh; rotting and burnt, graveyard dirt, and dried blood. Another scream escaped her lips. The people around her. These weren't costumes. These people were dead. Her eyes whipped around at their faces. The bodies moved slowly. The eyes of many were vacant, some tried to smile at her in what she felt was cruel mockery. Others seemed almost frightened at her scream, their brains and bodies not connecting quite fast enough; their souls emptied long ago. She could feel the room spinning as the smell continued to grow and fill her nostrils. She caught sight of slimy skin, maggots, and autopsy gashes and stitches. How had she not noticed? Why did she allow herself to be led here so blindly?  


He was the Grim Reaper, what part of her had not understood what that meant? She asked herself this again, stupidly. He was not here to make the passage easier or softer or kinder. Any courtship with him that felt remotely like human interaction was only ever going to be a summer fling at most because people didn't stay with Death, they just passed on through. Anything that felt like human interaction had to have been an illusion. The dying weren't facets of his state of being that lingered, how could they be? He had too much work to do. Everyone and everything had to die eventually and whether you fought it or were easily led to it, it didn't matter. It was not an escape. It was rotting, it was worms eating your insides, it was your soul escaping your sack of slippery organs.  


She eyes darted back and forth at the corpses around her. They were unrecognizable as to what they may have looked like when alive, and their clothes... the people's clothes. 

They indicated that they were all manner of people; a chef, a waiter, people in the finest suits and silks, someone fitted with a name tag from some sort of retail job. Jerry; the name tag read. Every one of these people had been an individual once. Now they were dead and none of it was pretty. Death was people grieving your lack of existence in their world. It was being forgotten in only a matter of generations while the world continued. It was loss of matter into energy and where that energy went was unsure. It was horrible. Malaria felt her legs buckle, she could have fainted but the disgusting smell kept her awake with the feeling of needing to retch.  


She thought back to first seeing Grim on the shoreline, the ocean water teasing at her dress. She thought she had been doing so well this summer even if she hadn't been consistent with her therapy the last few weeks. When he had asked her to leave the dreadful beach with him she couldn't help but agree. Some part of her numbly thought that she did actually like the beach. She had gotten herself there, after all. She had gone on a walk hoping some sunlight would ease her aching thoughts; keep her in higher spirits. But, when she laid her eyes on him that day, that tall, handsome shadow in the horizon, suddenly something she had wanted to do that day didn't seem so enjoyable anymore. It didn't hold anything for her, no charm, no satisfaction. She should have known. Living with depression for as long as she had, even with many years of her younger life going undiagnosed, she had figured out ways to cope. It had gotten to the point that she could usually sense it coming on. Her ideation of suicide ebbed and flowed like the tide...she should have known. Just like she should have known she didn't want to die.  


Death was inevitable and would come to her eventually, her own thoughts about it be damned. But, she didn't want it like this. She wouldn't go softly into that good night. She didn't want it by choice or because she had given up. So, she ran. She screamed her heart out and she ran. She didn't look back. She felt the eyes of the corpses on her and they made way. She was not here to stay. She refused. They seemed to know it and she heard Grim's voice behind her and yet somehow inside her head all at once.  


“Call me”, his voice said. It sounded almost pitiful but she didn't have time to think on it.

***

When she got home she had no recollection of how she had gotten there. She was suddenly just in front of her door with no sense of how much time had passed or if she had really ran the whole way. She knew that in some capacity Grim must have helped her out just as he had been the one who had taken her to the underworld in the first place.  


She got ready for bed. She made sure to eat and take a shower, wash her makeup off, brush her teeth and comb her hair. She carefully laid out tomorrow's outfit and all the little details that would make it come together and have her looking as lovely as ever. She made a note to herself to make a therapy appointment as soon as possible. She got a good night's rest and the next day when she felt she had done a proper job of taking care of herself and not thinking too long and hard about the state of her own existence she tried her best to forget about Grim. There would always be time for him. That was a fact. Just not right now.  


Some nights when she would falter, thoughts of him would come to her again and she would pick up the phone and think about his last words to her. She wasn't sure how it would work but she knew that if she really wanted to she would be able to reach him. It wouldn't take much to summon him at all.  


Years later, standing in her living room, getting ready to go out, she swore she caught a glimpse of him in a different living room area. It was like there was a merging of spaces somehow and a portal had been opened. He sat in a living room that looked far too normal but had no place existing in her own. The room he was in was innocuous as any but she knew from her time with him that he fit into everyday spaces just fine because he had to. She reached out through the green light of the rip in reality and made a step forward. He looked straight at her. She waved at him and then he was gone.  


She wondered for a long time if she had imagined it but then she took it as a sign that he knew of his hold on her. She knew that he would come for her eventually as with all living things ...just as she knew she would have to live with wanting to speed up the process for the rest of her life. That was okay. She could make it through and when it was her time she would greet him as an old friend. She didn't want to die. She had things to live for and things she enjoyed. Her thoughts were just thoughts. She didn't want to die, she just knew she would someday have to. She didn't want to die. At least, not by suicide.


End file.
